The View from Prince Street (13 page)

“Which generation are you reading about?”

“Oh, Patience McDonald, the first McDonald woman to arrive in Virginia. In fact, she knew your ancestor, Mistress Smyth. You said you didn't know much about your family?”

“Afraid not,” I said. “I damn near failed history in high school.”

Margaret's eyes widened. “My God, woman, how could you come close to failing history? It's a no-brainer.”

Spontaneous laughter rumbled in my chest. “I was a master at mucking up the most basic subjects in high school. Mostly Cs and Ds in English and Spanish.”

“Not the studious type.”

“No. Art was my passion.”

“Really?” Addie asked. “What kind of art?”

“Photography.”

“Right,” Margaret said. “When we were cleaning out your basement, we saw the images. You use a bellows camera.”

“I'm impressed. I do.”

“Now, if you must forsake your history studies for a bellows camera, I might be willing to forgive you. I love the richness of the prints created by that kind of work. Would you take my picture sometime?”

“You figure out what happened to Fiona and it's a deal.” I gave her a quick recap of Fiona's two husbands and the infant she gave away.

“Like I said on the phone, I did a quick search after I left Rae's,” Margaret said. “Fiona lost her first husband, moved to D.C. for five or six years, and sang in nightclubs. When she returned to Alexandria, she was married to a gentleman named David Saunders. They lived on Washington Street and had one daughter, Diane, who very oddly, would have been Rae and Jennifer's mother.”

“That's right,” I said, feeling random pieces assembling. “Diane. Rae is so much like her.”

“Rae's mom was a bit cold as well?”

“Yes. She always kept her emotions under lock and key.”

“She was a matchmaker like Rae?”

“So the legend goes.”

“Wow.” Margaret studied the pages of the book and reached for her phone. “Mind if I photograph the pages? I'd like to keep a record handy while I do some searches. May I tell people about the adoption?”

“At this point, sure. Better she knows the full story of her life.”

“Great.”

Meanwhile, Addie was studying the keychain dangling from my finger and recognized the sobriety chips. “You said you met Janet at an AA meeting?”

“Yes. I'm an alcoholic.” I'd stopped hiding my disease long ago. It
was easier to be open about it all than carry the weight of half-truths and lies. But not everyone talked openly about their meetings.

“How long have you been sober?”

“Over a dozen years.”

“Damn, you developed a problem fairly young.” Margaret didn't hide her surprise.

“I did.” I slid my hands into the front pockets of the jeans. “No sense beating around the bush. I was in the car with Jennifer McDonald when it crashed. She died and I couldn't handle it. I started drinking heavily. It was either AA or the grave.”

“That's a huge success,” Addie said. “How have you kept with it so long?”

Having stepped back from the brink of total failure only hours ago, I didn't feel like a success. “One hour at a time.”

Addie's smile was kind. “I hope you and Janet will get to know each other. You would be an inspiration to her.”

Margaret scribbled several names as she studied the book. “The initial handwriting is bold and dark, suggesting a man. Halfway through, the handwriting becomes distinctly feminine. That would support that Jeffrey stopped participating when your aunt was about five months old.”

Margaret turned a page, studying the woman's shaky handwriting. “There's a notation here:
Can a woman and baby alone make a home?
”

Addie rubbed Carrie's back. “Good question. I worry about that all the time.”

Margaret shook her head. “
You're
all the
home
that kid needs. But Fiona would have been a single mother in the early 1940s. If you didn't have money or strong family ties, it was a great deal harder. My question is, why didn't the McDonald family embrace her? She was married to their son and she gave birth to his child. Where was her family?”

“I don't know any of that,” I said. “And Amelia's mind is no longer
sharp. The fact we had any kind of conversation about this is nearly a miracle.”

Margaret nodded. “Not to worry. I'm on the job. I'll figure it out.” She carefully closed the book. “Can I hold on to this for a day or two?

“Sure. Any information you can find out about Fiona would be great. It would mean a lot to Amelia and me.”

The corner of Margaret's mouth hitched into a grin. “I'm on it.”

Dearest Mother,

A stranger came to visit today, a traveller headed to Alexandria. He had heard of Faith's healing powers and asked her to make an elixir for his gout. When he spied the children in the cottage, Mr. McDonald introduced Marcus as Faith's son and Patrick as our son. Faith directed an angry glare toward Mr. McDonald, who looked back at her, unflinching. Faith didn't speak up but she turned sullen. I do not understand what transpired, nor do I care. It was such fun to have a visitor and hear of news from the city. The price of tobacco is on the rise and the Alexandria city leaders are building a large pier that will allow the tall ships to dock at the shore. The Indians continue to cause trouble in the west and there is talk that the king will send troops to put down the troublemakers. Mr. McDonald was pleased by the news about the dock and spoke of one day building a bigger, grander house that will stand as a testament to the McDonald clan.

—P

Rae McDonald

T
HURSDAY
, A
UGUST
18, 2:00
P.M.

T
he rain cleared, but the air remained heavy with moisture when I rose from my desk overlooking the bare spot in my backyard. I'd just completed several reports for my family practice clients, which capped off a highly productive day. I still hadn't summoned the courage to write a response to Michael's e-mail.

Margaret's words rattled in my head.
Daisy doesn't talk about it much, but it hurts her. I mean, how hard could it be to return an e-mail?

Was Michael waiting by his computer, wondering if I didn't care? Was he upset with me?

The idea of his pain sent me shrinking deeper and deeper into work and farther away from any thoughts of him. He had a mother who loved him very much. I had met Susan and her husband, Todd, when I was pregnant. Knowing adoption was my only choice, I insisted that I meet the couple that would raise my child. My mother thought it was a bad idea and didn't want to deal with the child's
real
family, as she called it, but I insisted.

I remember Susan was nervous. Her smile was bright and
welcoming, but her hand shook a little as she extended it to me. Her grasp was firm, her touch warm.

“The prenatal checkup went well.” My mother spoke clearly to Susan and Todd as I sat, unable to speak. “She didn't see a doctor in the first two trimesters of her pregnancy, but he has since examined her completely and said she and the child are in perfect health.”

Susan observed everything she could about me. Maybe documenting it for the boy one day. Several times she looked at my very round belly, but she did her best to engage me in conversation so I felt included, rather than just an incubator.

“And as you know, the child is a boy,” Mom said.

Susan grinned, her eyes moistening with tears as she took her husband's hand.

I rested my hands over my belly. My child. My flesh. My son.

“Rae,” Susan said softly. “I brought you a gift.”

“A gift. Why?”

She pulled a scrapbook from her purse. It was covered in rich leather and embossed with strands of ivy in each corner. “It's not much. It's a scrapbook that has a few pictures of Todd and me.”

I opened the book to a picture of the smiling couple with a large black Labrador retriever sitting between them. The sun shone behind the trio. Their life appeared so blessed.

Carefully, I turned the pages, viewing one happy scene after another. It was bittersweet. I was happy for them and Michael but wondered why it couldn't have been me. I closed the book and absently traced the ivy corners with my fingertips.

“That book is full of pictures of us and our house,” she said, pulling out a second scrapbook. “But this one is empty and will be filled with pictures of the baby as he grows up. I promise you I'll send pictures as often as you like. I want you to know that we'll love him with all our heart. You are also now a part of our family.”

I opened the book and leafed through the empty pages. Memories I would never experience. “Why do you want him?”

Todd took Susan's hand. “We can't have children.”

Susan's lips didn't tremble when she smiled, but I sensed the nervousness. “We tried and tried. In vitro. It all failed.” She leaned forward, taking my hand again. “The chances of me carrying a baby to term are nearly impossible now.”

And I'd gotten pregnant without a single thought.

“I want to be a mother, Rae. Biology doesn't matter to me.”

The boy was mine and I was giving him away. I cleared my throat. “His name will be Michael. They told you that, right?”

“They did,” Susan said, wiping away a tear. “And it's a great name. I think I've practiced it about a thousand times in the last few days.”

I smoothed my hand over my rounded curves. “You really think you can love Michael?”

Susan raised clasped hands to her heart. “I already do, Rae. There are moments when I think I've been waiting for him for a lifetime.” She swallowed emotion, tightening her throat. “And I want to be a mom so badly. I'm sorry if I sound a little emotional.”

Outside, the crunch of truck tires on gravel pulled me from the past. I blinked, chasing away the memories and grabbing onto the present. A car door closed. That would be Zeb, here to discuss the new office. Only now, I wasn't so sure it should be an office. A guest cottage might make more sense.

My doorbell rang, the chime vibrating through the house. Straightening my shoulders, I moved down the center hallway to the door and opened it.

Zeb stood in the doorway, one hand on a roll of building plans and the other on the shoulder of a young boy standing beside him. The boy could have been Zeb as a child. Dark hair the color of coffee, square shoulders, and curious dark eyes that stared up at me with a boldness uncommon for a child that age.

“This is my son, Eric,” Zeb said. “I hope you don't mind, but he's running errands with me this afternoon.”

The boy was about seven, and immediately, I compared him to my boy. What had he looked like at that age? Though Michael's mother had faithfully sent me pictures over the years, I never opened one envelope. As curious as I was, I always sensed if I really understood what I was missing as a mother, my heart would break and I would never be able to recover. But I also dared not throw them away. So I carefully filed all the unopened letters in a box and stored them with the scrapbook in the top of my bedroom closet.

“No, that's fine. Please come inside.”

At the threshold, they carefully wiped their feet before stepping inside.

“Why don't we sit in the kitchen?” I asked. “Margaret McCrae brought by cookies, and I doubt I'll ever be able to eat them all.” Boys like sweets, don't they?

Eric glanced up at Zeb and grinned.

“That sounds great,” Zeb said.

“I like cookies from the Union Street Bakery,” Eric said. “Dad and I go there a lot on Saturdays. Margaret is funny.”

“She's very entertaining,” I said.

“And I play with Anna and Ellie sometimes.”

Ah, Margaret's nieces. And the single sister. Rachel, was it? I wondered how Zeb and Rachel would fare if paired. Two single parents. Business owners. Well liked. They aligned without much effort.

We moved to the bright lights of the kitchen. I retrieved the bag of cookies from the refrigerator as well as the half quart of milk. “Do you drink milk, Eric?”

“I do.”

“Have a seat on one of the stools and I'll pour you a glass.” In the reflection of the cabinet, I saw Eric hop up on the stool and settle his bottom on the chair.

“The kitchen looks good,” Zeb said. “Had any issues with it?”

“No. You did a great job.” I set a plate and a glass of milk in front of Eric.

He ran his hand over the white marble of the island. “I remember this gave us fits. We had a heck of a time finding a slab big enough but also with the right shades.”

I set up the coffeemaker and turned it on. “I never knew there were so many decisions.”

“But you got what you wanted in the end.”

“Of course.” I didn't bother with sugar because I remembered Zeb never took it in his coffee. He and his crews had worked in this kitchen for months two summers ago. Many a morning during the construction phase I brewed coffee for him and his men in a makeshift kitchen setup in the dining room.

Eric reached for a chocolate chip cookie and took a big bite. “Margaret says you should start every day with a cookie. She says she could eat cookies for all her meals.”

“Cookies aren't a major food group,” I said.

Zeb grinned. “That's what I keep trying to tell Eric. But so far, Margaret's winning the argument.”

Margaret traveled from job to job like a gypsy and she would be the first to admit she made a meager income. Dizzying professional highs and lows were the norm for her, but as much as I searched for a fault in her approach to life, she squeezed so much joy out of living. It was a talent I'd long ago forgotten.

I poured Zeb a cup of coffee and set it in front of him. “Those the plans?”

“They are.”

“I might have some changes.”

“Really?” I sensed a touch of frustration. He liked his timetables.

“I've been back and forth on ideas for a couple of days now.”

He took a sip, clearly needing a moment to rein in his emotions.
“You do make the best coffee.” He rolled out the plans on the cool marble and anchored them with the salt and pepper shakers. “As you can see, I've redrawn the upstairs plan and you now have rough-ins for an office. The downstairs is still dedicated garage and storage space.” His weathered, tanned finger pointed to several symbols that represented what looked like a bathroom and kitchen.

“That's exactly what I asked for.”

He stared across the wide counter at me. “But . . .”

“I didn't say a
but
.”

Frowning, he sipped his coffee. “There is a
but
, Dr. McDonald.”

He'd done exactly as I asked and still, as I stared at the plans, it all felt wrong. “I'm generally very decisive.”

“But.”

“I don't know.”

“Are you a real doctor?” Eric asked.

Grateful to shift attention from Zeb, I looked at the boy. “I'm a psychologist.”

Freckles splashed across the bridge of Eric's nose in a very appealing way. I made a point not to notice children but even I could admit he was cute. He cocked his head, studying me closely. “Dad said they aren't real doctors. You can't make sick people better.”

Zeb sighed his exasperation. “Eric. Oversharing.”

The boy looked up at his father, confused. “But you said—”

Zeb shook his head, a raised finger to his lips signaling silence. “Eat your cookie.”

“I finished it.”

A frustrated smile tweaked the edges of his lips. “Ask Dr. McDonald if you can have a second.”

Eric looked up at me. “Can I?”

“May I?” I asked.

Eric shrugged. “May I have another cookie?”

I pushed the plate toward him. “Yes, you may.”

Seconds passed as he studied the collection of a half dozen cookies. “Are you eating one?”

“I don't eat sugar.”

After careful scrutiny, he chose the largest chocolate chip cookie on the plate. “Then why do you have cookies in the house?”

“Margaret brought them by for me. I couldn't throw them out.”

“Why?”

Good question. I wouldn't allow myself to eat a cookie, and yet I couldn't throw them out. “It would be a waste.”

Chocolate smeared the edges of his lips. “But no one is eating them.”

The child's logic was on target. I wasn't making sense. I couldn't open and enjoy the letters from the boy's mother nor could I enjoy or discard the cookies.

I handed him a paper towel. “You're eating them, now.”

Eric studied the large chocolate chip cookie in his hand. “Yeah. Thanks.”

As the boy bit into the cookie, Zeb cleared his throat as he scratched his head. “My mom always said little pitchers have big ears.”

“I'm sure Eric misses very little.”

“Oh, yeah.” He traced the handle of his cup. “I didn't mean you weren't a real doctor.”

I laid my hands on the counter. Smooth. Cool. Calming. “Yes, you did. And you would not be the first to say it. Comments like that don't bother me. I know what I do is valuable.”

“You have a lot to be proud of here. I meant no offense.”

“Dad said you can't operate on people either,” Eric said.

Zeb rubbed the back of his neck. “Eric, enough sharing.”

“He's right,” I said. “I'm not that kind of doctor.”

“What other kinds are there?” Eric asked.

“There are dozens of kinds.”

“Like what?”

“Doctors who care for children. Doctors who fix broken bones. Doctors who examine eyes.”

“Is that all?”

I looked at Zeb. “I've landed in a maze. I don't think there's any way out.”

The edges of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “There's no escape. And the more questions you answer, the more he'll have. It never, ever, ends.”

“Then I shall cut my losses and worry about the building out back.” I studied the plans again. “I thought when I cleared the land that I knew what I wanted. Now, I'm not so sure. That's a poor excuse and does little to help you with your job, but I'm still struggling with what to build on the spot.”

“You have no idea?”

“None. Not logical, I know.”

He slowly rolled up the plans, tugged the rubber band from his wrist, and wrapped it around the papers. “Why don't I leave these with you? You can take a few days to look over them and think about it. The rains have slowed, but your ground won't be dry for another week. Until then, I can't lay the foundation. I've other work and I'll shift my focus to that.”